Yet he rose again, uneasily and with irregular steps
returned to the corridor, passing the door of the familiar little cell
beside his own. The window, the table, and even the scant toilette
utensils were filled with the flowers of yesterday, some of them
withered and dry; the white gown of the little chorister was hanging
emptily against the wall. Father Pedro started and trembled; it seemed
as if the spiritual life of the child had slipped away with its
garments.
In that slight chill, which even in the hottest days in California
always invests any shadow cast in that white sunlight, Father Pedro
shivered in the corridor. Passing again into the garden, he followed in
fancy the wayfaring figure of Francisco, saw the child arrive at the
rancho of Don Juan, and with the fateful blindness of all dreamers
projected a picture most unlike the reality. He followed the pilgrims
even to San Jose, and saw the child deliver the missive which gave the
secret of her sex and condition to the Father Superior. That the
authority at San Jose might dissent with the Padre of San Carmel, or
decline to carry out his designs, did not occur to the one-idea'd
priest.
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